This week, Austin decided against breaking his own legs, poking needles into his eyes, pushing his face into a saucepan of boiling water, rubbing a cheesegrater against his tender parts, eating the contents of the cat litter tray and slicing into his own teeth with a pair of extra large nail clippers. However, he did watch Britain's Got talent...

Against all my better judgment and cultural leanings I am enjoying Britain’s Got Talent. I had not bought into the whole SuBo thing, becoming quickly bored by the hysterical global coverage, and rather sorry for Susan, who is quickly becoming the victim of the fascism of fame. Yes she is riding high just now, but at what cost? Cameras everywhere, and although I admit to less than an Adonis body, and recognise that baldness is almost never a fashion statement ( Bruce Willis where are you in my hour of need?) I would hate to be discussed, criticised , traduced and analysed worldwide in the physical attraction stakes. And wait for the backlash. Luckily Susan is not a drug dealer, a child-beater or a shoplifter – indeed she seems to be a God-fearing, cat-loving single woman with a distinct lack of skeletons – which the media would have found if there had been. But things will change. The first time she fails or gets upset, or is snapped in a less than favourable light, or appears to have had a drink she will have to suffer the usual excesses of negative publicity, when she appears to me to have a fragile dimension to her personality. Some of her friends are already fingered by the tabloid media for misbehaviour of one sort or another.

I tuned in to the semi-final on Sunday with my wife and daughter, and we enjoyed the show, though commenting and scathing on the acts and the attitudes as we went along. But for all the hype, and there is plenty of that, what is the truth of BGT? Well, it is that Britain does indeed have talent, but it is not all here on this show, and what does get through to this point is really and truly a bit ho-hum.

There are two factors at play. One is that after each act has done its party piece at the auditions, he, she they or it needs to bring something different and better to the semi-final. Diversity the multi-ethnic dance act did… but just and no more. No-one else did. The cute wee girl chanteusie whom Simon Cowell palpably had some kind of thing for, just wisnae that good, and he even voted her out at the end. Darth Jackson’s pony had done its one trick and gone lame, the Face of Disco guys did the same thing they had done before (though they have a great future doing corporates. You can imagine the company’s Christmas bash having a hit when the boys turn up with masks of the managing director etc), the belly dancer had a vapid smile but no belly to dance with, the treacherous violinist was a fair player but not a virtuosa (and was reduced to nearly showing off her pants to the audience in her fiddling-jigging routine) and even poor Susan, having got off to a shaky start with a cracked note, failed to wow.

The other thing is that we have seen similar to all of the acts – but done better. It is a bit like Doctor Johnson’s rather un-PC saying that a woman preaching is like a dog walking on its hind legs. It is not done well, but that it is done at all is a surprise. Yes, it is a novelty to hear a frumpy unusual woman from Blackburn West Lothian doing torch songs. But I have heard better in a middle-of-the-range show at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, by someone who has slogged and trained for years and been disappointed and earned their place.

There‘s nothing wrong with BGT as a product. It is bubble-gum entertainment, just gaudily dressed up as great art. More like great tart. My only gripe I think is that SuBo has been taken too seriously by politicians and the media all over the world. And it’s not just the responsibility of the internet, though heaven knows YouTube has boosted a national event into a world one. But I guess in our time, once fame takes hold it is the spur for recognition. Modern fame feeds on itself, so that an appearance on Oprah is then a mark of success or merit, instead of a result of either.

Anyway, I am in danger of overanalysing. It’s only a game show, and a harmless one at that. I am writing after the first semi but before the rest, so things may improve. But so far the show has failed the cup of tea test. If something on TV is so interesting or exciting, then when I am ( inevitably) instructed to go and make spouse and offspring a cup of tea, I say “Hold on a minute”, the test is passed. If I just get up and slope off to the kitchen to obey my mistresses’ bidding without delay, the cup of tea test is failed.

Indeed during the round-up part of the show I got Hannah my daughter to play the recording of Stavros Flatley’s audition which she accessed on her laptop for us, and was much better entertainment. I laughed out loud, and am looking forward to their semi.

On the basis that there is nothing new under the sun, the whole BGT thing is just New Faces repackaged for the Noughties, and none the worse for that. During one ad break, I suggested to my family that I should have a go next year. They didn’t think it a good idea, and that was expressed to me quite candidly, and in a variety of ways. But I have worked out the formula: ignoring the crazy acts like putting meerkats down your y-fronts and all that, get a song that is well known to the (any) audience, that starts quiet but builds to a crescendo, backed by a full string orchestra, affect a sympathetic personal appearance ( though that Pugh guy who was “nervous” needed a kick in the baritones he was such a wuss) and a heart warming back story. Go on, get the notes right, and you’re there.

So I intend to limp on to the stage, and do Roy Orbison’s A Love So Beautiful. Oprah Winfrey, here I come!